


Predictable

by SpookshowBabyx



Category: House M.D.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpookshowBabyx/pseuds/SpookshowBabyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When House berates Cameron for being all too predictable and safe; a halloween party with the requirement to 'dress up' may be the best opportunity for her to prove him wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So, I hadn't planned on including this first bit but thought it might get confusing to keep referring to this conversation which no one but I would know about. It's not your intelligence I worry about, lovely readers, it's mine! So yes, this is short and uneventful but you'll probably get the main story today as well... let's call this a warm up! Costumes to come!
> 
> This was a request from a while back. Please leave a comment!

"Before you even  _begin_  to think of saying no, you should know that even  _House_  is coming. If you can't come to a party even  _he_  has agreed to, well, I'm sorry to say, but you'd just be being pathetic."

Chase grins winningly as he leans across the table; pinching a medical journal from unsuspecting fingers so as to earn Cameron's full- if not slightly perturbed- attention.

"Fine, _fine_ , I'd hate for you to think I was  _pathetic_."

She widens her eyes dramatically, as if such a thing would be mortifying, before stretching out with admirable agility to flick the switch on the coffee machine from her current position.

"Good morning, oh, ye young and hopeless"

Chase looks up as House enters and offers him a slightly more generic greeting as Cameron merely raises her hand; attention now back on the journal.

"Do we have a patient?"

"We  _had_  a patient; looked promising, but then he all but gave us a list of the uppers he's on- which he failed to mention during his triage exam- Diagnosis; Moron. Foreman's running tests to confirm."

"Surprise, surprise, man's helping himself to a little extra curricula comfort and Miss Priss disapproves; alert the newspapers!"

Cameron scowls at House who pays her reaction no mind as he goes about locating his mug, before turning her icy gaze onto Chase, whose pink tongue is poking jovially through his teeth as he leans comfortably back in his chair and smirks as her.

"No,  _Cameron_  just doesn't like wasting her time..."

"You shouldn't talk about yourself in the third person; symptom of an ego much larger than Miss Priss could ever hope to cope with."

"Stop calling me that!"

" _Stop calling me that!_ "

House mimics in high falsetto, his fruitless search becoming aggressive.

"Where the hell is my mug!? Why isn't it in the sink where I left it?"

"It's in the cupboard with all the  _clean_  mugs because I  _washed_  it. Just like it was yesterday, and every day before that..."

He grunts irritably- retrieving it along with two others- and goes about making coffee; bringing the finished product over to the table and sliding the two smaller mugs towards his employees.

" _Ugh_ , what the hell is this?"

Chase wrinkles his nose distastefully at the decidedly sludgy black liquid, sniffing it warily.

"Blame Cameron, it's supposed to be her job"

The young doctor opens her mouth to protest, but House cuts her off efficiently; tiring of this particular subject of bickering.

"So what were you ladies gossiping about before I came in?"

Chase rolls his eyes, taking another sip of coffee before wincing and shoving it abruptly out of reach with a distrustful glance.

"I was telling Cameron she'd be eternally pathetic if she didn't come to the party this weekend."

"Sorry, Cameron, but you can't say he didn't warn you."

" _Hey_ , I'm  _coming_! I'm not quite as lame as you guys make me out to be..."

Twin pairs of blue eyes twinkle at her mockingly.

"Ok, ok, so saying I'm not lame _is_  pretty lame, but still- I'm going. Happy?"

"We're not  _un_ happy"

"You're an ass, House... Actually, it sounds kind of fun."

"It will be; it's a costume party."

Chase wiggles his eyebrows at her suggestively and yelps as a small, sneakered foot makes sharp contact with his shin.

"I know, I heard you telling Foreman"

"Good, you'll be using your lunch break to find an outfit then? You know Victoria's Secret has an online store, right?"

"Shut up, Chase."

She rolls her eyes at him, cheeks pinking slightly. House grins from his seat next to Cameron's at his young doctor's expense, before intensifying his gaze on her and assessing her intently. Cameron pointedly ignores him, instead raising an eyebrow at Chase in question.

"So what are _you_  going as then?"

"Ah, I can't tell you that- it'll ruin the surprise!"

"What surprise?"

Foreman strolls in and takes a seat next to Chase; absently-midedly handing over a slim folder to House which confirms their momentary patient free from the need of a diagnosis.

"She wants to know what I'm going to the party as"

"Oh yeah? What  _are_  you coming as?"

Chase grins smugly, miming the act of pulling a zip closed across his lips. Foreman grunts disinterestedly as Cameron huffs in exasperation.

"Oh come on, tell us!"

"I will if you will."

"Fine... I'll probably go as-"

"-She'll go as a doctor"

House gets up and begins making his way to his office, turning back round to address the three younger members of his team still seated at the table.

"She'll go as a Doctor in a half-assed attempt at being witty, when in reality she just can't bear embarrassing herself or risking judgement. Don't look at me that way, Doctor Cameron, you look adorable in your little pink scrubs; positively, cheek-pinchingly angelic. I'm sure you will look just as lovely nursing a white wine spritzer with a little cocktail stick. Halloween is  _wasted_  on the innocent."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's a quick second part for you guys :) Also, I realise it says that this fic revolves primarily around House and Cameron, and it will, but I always loved the relationship between Foreman and Cameron (at least in the beginning before the writers started doing weird things) and so enjoyed writing this little scene. (This isn't at all Canon but I guess we'll say this is around series 2 or so?) Let me know if you have any thoughts, as always!

Foreman knocks out a little tune on the front door which is just starting to peel where the paint has been applied too hurriedly. He can hear the faint thump of a drum beat and the murmur of vocals inside, suddenly accompanied by light footsteps getting progressively closer. There is a pause and he knows she's rocking up onto the balls of her feet to check on him through the absurdly high peep-hole. He smiles at the small glass dome on his end as the sound of the lock being clicked back thunks hollowly.

"Hey, Cam."

He grins at her, taking in delicately precise lines painted across high cheekbones; presumably supposed to resemble whiskers. She steps back to allow him in and to get a better look at her outfit. Black pants. Black sweater. The lack of a headband adorned with animal ears leaves him at a loss as to what creature she's actually supposed to be but he smiles knowingly.

"Not one for dress up, huh?"

She shrugs, padding on bare feet over to her fridge and coming back with the offering of a small glass of kool-aid. He nods his thanks, trying not to eye her own glass of wine too jealously.

A few days prior, Foreman had drawn the short straw and landed himself as the designated go-to man should one of the team need to go on-call over the weekend, and, as such, had agreed to discipline himself to just one alcoholic drink to be enjoyed at the party. Unable to do anything about his predicament, he had amiably offered to play driver seeing as he would have to pass Cameron's apartment anyway to get to Chase's.

"Nice outfit."

She smirks at him and he opens his coat fully to give her a better look.

"Thanks, I'm supposed to be-"

"Green Arrow, right?"

"Right"

Foreman raises an eyebrow; he himself never having heard of the character until enlightened by his neighbor's son a few nights before, and never having pegged Cameron for much of a comic book nerd. As if reading his mind, she points vaguely in the direction of her bookshelves.

_Christ, it's like a goddamn library..._

Situated within the overwhelming wall of literature, Forman makes out one of the bottom shelves to be packed with a series of thin paperbacks that can only be comic-books.

"What, no plastic coverings and latex gloves?"

She rolls her eyes and takes a seat on the sofa as he finishes his drink.

"No, I like to actually  _enjoy_  them, not dissect them- I get enough of that at work."

"Fair enough."

"So, is Chase gonna be Superman or something then? Or will he surprise us all and elect to embody the Black Canary?"

"Who? And I have no idea."

"Never mind, let's just say there would be fishnets, a corset and a whole lot of humiliation involved. Then again, I guess Chase could go as Flash; fastest man alive..."

Foreman has a strong suspicion she's all but biting back from adding ' _if you know what I mean_ ' and chuckles.

"Probably apt, but I don't know what anyone else is going as, so for now it's just Green Arrow and... a cat?"

"Yeah, I guess."

She shrugs noncommittally, fidgeting with a plastic bag lying next to her on the sofa; fingers folding and unfolding the material distractedly.

"You guess?"

Foreman raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate. Eventually she sighs and looks up at him with something between irritation and embarrassment.

"It's just... I was _going_  to to be a nurse... but then... after what House said..."

Foreman exhales with sudden comprehension

"You were going to wear your scrubs..."

"Well... yeah... I mean, I thought it'd be... you know..."

"You thought it'd be funny."

"Something like that."

"Cameron, you do _realize_  who you're talking about, right? It's  _House_!...  _Anything_  you'd have said you were going to go as he would have shot you down! The asshole's not gonna  _actually_  come dressed up himself anyway, so screw him!"

"It's not that, it's- he knew I was going to go as a nurse before I even said anything! I'm so fucking predictable to him."

"You're not predictable... he just... he  _knows_  you..."

"To House, that's the same thing."

Foreman sighs, not keen on starting the night with his companion feeling dejected.

"Cameron..."

"I just hate that he always makes me squirm like some little kid...and I thought... maybe I'd show him... I'm not  _always_  predictable... but... I don't know..."

She goes back to fidgeting with what Foreman now recognizes to be a bag from the same costume store from which his Arrow outfit was purchased. He grins, leaning to place his empty glass on the coffee table before snatching the bag quickly away from her.

"What's in here then? Feels a lot heavier than cat ears!"

"No, _don't_! It's... it's stupid..."

Foreman shrugs and fishes blindly into the bag, before coming out with his triumphant catch dangled precariously between two fingers.

"Oh my."

Cameron falls back into the sofa; slinging her arm over her face to cover her eyes theatrically.

"I know, I know, I'm lame, I  _get_  it, can we just go now? I'll return it on Monday."

Foreman laughs and falls heavily onto the sofa next to her, waiting for her to remove her slender arm from her vision. When she does, she finds him grinning at her with something resembling amusement, but she cautiously decides this variety isn't meant at her expense.

"This-"

He shakes his find pointedly

"- is  _not_  lame, Cameron."

"Yes, it is, there is no way in  _hell_  I'd ever even wear something like that... it was just a stupid-... I just wanted to prove House wrong is all."

"Then wear it."

"What!?  _No_!"

"Yes!"

Foreman hands her the silky white fabric and offers her smile.

"Wear it."

"Foreman...I'll look ridiculous..."

"At least try it on; if you look ridiculous, I'll tell you... I'm hardly going to _force_  you to wear it, but I really, _really_  think you should, just to see his face."

She sighs and takes the item from him along with the bag that contains the necessary accessories, heading off into the direction of her bathroom.

"Fine, I'll try it on... But if  _you_  laugh at me-"

"-I won't! And trust me; the cat whiskers... House will be in his _element_  with comments on those."

"Fine, fine, no cat whiskers... you want more kool-aid?"

Foreman shudders theatrically, shaking his head.

"No thanks, you're a good woman, Cameron, but anyone that doesn't put sugar in their kool-aid has something _seriously_  wrong with them."

"Lack of diabetes being high on that list?"

She smiles as she scolds him and gently closes the door behind her; leaving Foreman to sit and take in his surroundings, becoming slightly disconcerted by the sounds coming from the stereo, which entail the narrating of a soon to be psychotic bloodbath to obscure, jolting noises. He wanders over to perform a closer inspection. Tom Waits. He deduces the song to be 'what's he building in there' by reading the album cover and the repetitive nature of the track and shakes his head, falling back into the sofa. Weird girl.

* * *

After what seems like forever, he hears the door to the bathroom shift tentatively open. Pale fingers and a wisp of dark curls are all that's currently visible as Cameron mutters something inaudible before voicing his name.

"Still here."

"Damn... ok... ummm... you know what this is dumb, I'm getting changed."

"I swear to god, Cameron; you shut yourself back in there and I'll break the door down and drag you out myself! I want to get to Chase's before I die of old age! Now come _on_ , it can't be  _that_  bad!"

"I look  _ridiculous_!"

Nevertheless she peeks her head round the door; cheeks pleasantly pink and makeup slightly darker than before. Her hair is slightly tousled, whether on purpose or as a result from getting changed he doesn't know, but the effect is entirely in her favor. He rolls his eyes dramatically and beckons her out, getting impatient.

First one leg extends from behind the shelter of the door- long and sleek and encased in a white stocking so sheer it's barely there but for the intricate lacing at the top- and then she steps out fully. Her slim frame is incased in a white mini-dress that would be merciless on her flaws if she'd had any. The hem falls high on erthreal-pale thighs; the contour of the muscles leading up to the apex of her sex just visible. Thin white lace falls in two small bands beneath the dress in the form of a garter belt; clipped neatly to her stockings that start several inches below. The dress zips up the at the front- the zipper resting tantalizingly low- showcasing the finely distinct ripple of her sternum and delicate bow of her collarbones. The white fabric is marred only by a small red cross stitched at her left breast, and offset by suicidally high black heels.

" _Fuck me!_ "

" _What?!_ "

"Not like that... but...  _shit!_ "

"Ok, honestly, what do you think?"

"Well... you  _certainly_  don't look ridiculous... not in the way  _you_  mean anyway..."

"Even now?"

She gives him a slightly lop-sided smile that is disconcertingly yet alluringly  _Cameron_ , and sets a little white hat on her dark waves; this too bearing a red cross. She raises her eyebrows at him in preparation for any teasing that will follow, but he simply stares at her as if seeing her for the first time.

"Ok, you have to say something now, you're weirding me out a bit."

"Sorry, it's just... you look... good.. _.great_ , even."

"Awww, thanks!"

She drips sarcasm, and walks over to the table to down the last of her wine, never faltering despite her heels; the height they push her to merely serving to work the muscles of her legs visibly with each step.

Foreman gathers himself slightly and stands, making a show of collecting her long black coat from the back of the door and handing it to her with a theatrical bow.

"Your carriage awaits!"

"So that's what they're calling Chevys these days..."

She dons her coat and buttons it primly closed; offering him a goofy smile that juxtaposes beautifully with her outfit and offers him her arm. He rolls his eyes and reverses the gesture so that her slim hand slips under his elbow and they make their way down the stairs of her apartment building, Foreman resisting the urge to steady her as her heels bring her to be a good inch or so taller than he himself.

"To the ball we go."

"Yup, let's get me nice and drunk so I can bear to take my coat off."

"Sounds like a plan to me!"

 


	3. Chapter 3

****

"About time!"

Chase greets them at the door after several attempts of loud banging to be heard over the music. Behind him, the room is dimly lit with cheesy strobe light effects dappling the area where half the hospital seems to be milling about.

"Nice costume, Chase."

Cameron smirks at him as Chase ushers them inside; clapping a friendly hand on Foreman's back that is almost certainly the result of one too many beers. He grins back at her amiably, allowing her to flick one of the corks suspended from his wide brimmed hat. He wears an open shirt and cargo shorts along with the cork hat, and happily waves around a can of fosters lager.

"I figured I'd make the joke before anyone else did"

"By anyone, you mean House?"

Chase nods at Foreman's observation and leads them over to a cloth covered table on which a variety of drinks have been set up.

"So come on then, show me your costumes!  _Don't_  tell me you didn't dress up!"

"Calm down, we  _did!_  Here-"

Foreman shrugs off his coat and shoves it into Chase's arms, who throws his head back and laughs. Foreman has a suspicion his blonde-locked colleague has no clue who he's supposed to be, but is rather just celebrating the fact that he's dressed in what is technically a leotard. He supposes he can see the comical value of the situation.

"- _Brilliant_! And you, Cam?"

Cameron blushes slightly and fiddles with the buttons of her coat, while Foreman grins and snatches up a plastic cup- dunks it in the dubious looking punch bowl before them- and hands it to her

"I told her I'd get her drunk so she'd take her coat off."

He shouts in Chase's ear over the music. Cameron rolls her eyes at the two of them but downs the pinkish liquid quickly, causing the two boys to cheer jovially.

"It's gonna take a lot more than that to get me drunk."

Foreman raises his eyebrow at the challenge, laughing at her, and refills her cup before beckoning to her with his hand that she should give up her cover

"Bold words, Dr Cameron, but for now lets call it taking the edge off, and give me the coat."

Chase vocalizes his agreement, intrigued by this little charade, and she glances around them quickly- noting that while the room is packed, nobody seems to be paying them any particular attention- before grinning at the boys. She loosens the buttons of the long black trench coat theatrically, and gives a seductive wiggle of her hips before letting it drop off her shoulders to catch at her wrists and expose her outfit. Foreman cheers once more, while Chase simply stares at her, slack-jawed. Reeling in his initial shock, he eventually snaps his mouth closed, only to elicit a low wolf whistle which causes her to blush.

"Wow!"

"Thanks... I think!"

"Oh, it was  _definitely_  a positive wow!"

She smiles, slightly sheepishly, and leans across the table to snatch up a bottle of wine and pours some into her- now empty- cup. A whistle comes from behind as she's leant over the table has her she raising an eyebrow at her two colleagues; both of whom put their hands up in self defence.

"Wasn't me."

"Wasn't me."

She takes a sip of the wine, trying hard to keep her scowl from crumbling.

"Uhuh..."

"No seriously! I think it was that guy..."

Chase points over to a middle-aged man with dark hair dressed in a batman suit who, upon receiving Cameron's attention, proceeds to offer her an obscene gesture with his fingers and tongue, causing her companions to crack up with laughter as her eyes widen and she splutters on her wine.

"Gross! Who even is that?"

"No idea- I think I've seen him around paediatrics."

The graying superhero sidles over and offers Cameron a winning smile, effectively ignoring Chase and Foreman.

"Hey, I'm Gary."

"Hey, she's not interested."

Chase cuts in; mimicking the man's supposedly seductive tone. Gary scowls at the three of them before spotting a young nurse dressed in angel wings and taking leave for less hostile pastures.

"Chase! That was  _rude_!"

"I'm sorry, did you  _want_  to engage the guy in a deep, meaningful conversation? Or maybe you just wanted to see if he really was gonna do that thing with his tongue?"

" _No_! But still..."

"Relax, there'll be plenty more assholes trying to talk to you tonight."

As if on cue, the door goes again and Chase shrugs his apologies and heads over to meet and greet. Foreman grabs a beer and tops up Cameron's wine before heading off into the living room where people have started dancing. Cameron follows close behind, and he lets her fall comfortably in step next to him as they enter the room; knowing full well that, despite her poker face, she's more than aware of the appreciative glances being thrown towards them. After all, he doubts many of the men staring in approval are doing so due to the green lycra hugging his body.

At least he hopes not.

"Do you dance?"

She has to shout in his ear to be heard over the heavy beat of the music, and he turns his head so that he can yell back into hers.

"Not well!"

"Good enough for me!"

She turns to face him, and at first it's awkward, but then Def Lepard's 'Pour some Sugar on Me' starts playing and they begin to dance with comical exaggeration and he stops staring at her dress and simply reciprocates as she sings the lyrics much too loudly with a grin plastered on her face.

"You got the peaches; I got the cream-"

They break up laughing and she places her hands on his shoulders to steady herself as she rides out a fit of giggles.

"You're so hot when you sing off key."

"Well you're down right sexy when you do the robot..."

She laughs at him before raising her now empty glass to him.

"I'm running on empty, do you want another?"

"Better not, I could go for some juice though."

"Any preference?"

"Whatever's open."

She wanders back towards the kitchen, smiling politely and offering a greeting to familiar faces here and there. Foreman spots Wilson in the crowd talking to a couple of women he thinks he recognizes from the ER and heads on over.


	4. Chapter 4

House laughs one final time at Chase's hat and limps over to the spread on the table to help himself to a beer and a handful of chips. He has wrapped a white section of tape around the tip of his cane and wears dark glasses; planning on using his costume to his advantage, or at least as an excuse to grope a piece here and there.

A small pixie-cut woman sidles in next to him to fetch herself a drink and brushes him accidentally with her strapped on butterfly wings.

" _Oh_ , sorry, House."

He vaguely recognizes her from the front desk, but can't recall her name for the life of him. Her obnoxiously glittery dress is cut devilishly low however, and her small curvy frame is dusted in some sort of pink glitter.

"Don't worry about it..."

She doesn't offer her name, and he suspects she's slightly offended by the obvious fact he doesn't know who she is, but he merely shrugs and watches her turn away and head towards the living room. Turning back to lay claim to another handful of chips, he inadvertently bumps into yet another form in his way.

_Damn wombat clearly has delusions of grandeur about the size of his flat._

He turns to apologise and his eyes fall upon a pleasant expanse of skin, encased in cheap, white polyester. Looking up, he's accosted with an unmistakable mass of dark brown waves as his neighbour reaches across the table for a bottle of white wine; hips pressing up against the edge, causing her pert little ass to stick out pleasantly.

House quickly removes his gaze from his employee's buttocks and waits for her to notice his presence. Eventually, she clues up and turns to face him; scarlet painted lips pulling back into a smile much too innocent for her attire.

_I swear, if she thinks she's going to come back to work wearing those ridiculous girly shirts after this..._

"House!"

"Good evening, Dr Cameron."

Her smile widens as she lets her eyes roam over him in a way he will never quite grow accustomed to, no matter how often she does it.

"You're blind."

He's momentarily taken aback; smirking as he thinks to himself that he can see all that she has on offer just fine, before remembering his 'costume'. So far, she's the first to get it, but the fact that it is  _she_  who does so doesn't surprise him in the slightest.

"Now that's just rude, I believe the term is visually impaired."

She laughs and takes a sip from her cup; eyes glittering at him over the plastic rim, and he battles down the urge to let his eyes stray down her body. He's already taken in the stunning length of stocking encased leg she has on offer, and so is more than aware that her dress is so damn short that the tops of those stockings are on display.

Lest anybody think they were tights.

Or pantyhose.

No, the wisps of nylon encasing her slim, yet surprisingly muscular legs finish halfway up her thighs, the remaining flesh bare, before disappearing beneath the meagre covering of her dress, and he just  _knows_  that only a thin scrap of fabric will cover her where it matters most.

"But of course, please accept my apologies."

Still, that slightly goofy grin on lips painted hooker red. The rim of her glass is smudged with it, and he suspects most of the men here are imagining what that  _particular_  shade would look like smeared somewhere else entirely. Her smile falters slightly as he continues to bore into her with ice blue eyes; becoming a little more unsure of herself as the seconds tick by.

"Accepted."

One word and her teeth are back on display- brilliantly white against crimson- and he can almost  _taste_  the nervous energy that seems to permanently encompass his youngest employee like an electrical charge. He takes a sip of his beer, not having anything else to say to her, and she follows suit with a giddy, too-large gulp from her glass. She winces slightly as it goes down; this wine coming from a different bottle to that which she had been drinking previously, and painfully dry. Locating a can of lemonade, she reaches for it and cracks it open; pouring some of the sweet liquid into her wine to dull the harsh acidity. House smirks at her and she glares defensively at him; weight thrown to one side with her hips canted saucily, folding her arms across her chest, careful not to spill her drink.

Her stance all but  _begs_  his attention to her legs, and she is slim, and the natural gap between them leads so tantalizingly  _up_. He can so easily imagine sitting in his desk chair with her stood before him and running his hands up her skinny thighs; stroking the soft skin at the very insides of her legs.

This mental-image is undeniably erotic, but he takes another sip of his beer, shaking himself angrily from this train of thought. This is  _Cameron_ , and, while he will begrudgingly admit that her aesthetics are a definite positive side to having her around- in fact, when feeling  _particularly_  spiteful, he might claim they are perhaps her only favorable aspect- she is strictly off limits. The slightly crooked pull to her smile and the infallible hope that shines in those stupidly bright eyes are enough to remind him of that..

...But the white fabric straining across her every curve-  _seriously, where did she even_ find _a dress small enough to actually_ strain _against her petite frame_ \- belies that knowledge.

And suddenly, he's angry. This is his insufferably delightful little girl. Nicer than nice, with a temperament that threatens to cause cavities. What the hell does she think she's doing reddening her lips and rouging her cheeks? Her long, wavy hair is supposed to fall neatly down her back like silk, but the way it sits now- wild and tousled- makes it only too easy to image those same dark curls spread out over his pillow. So much of the skin usually hidden beneath that absurd combination of prim and proper layering is now bared to him, that how the hell is he  _not_  supposed to drink in every mark, every freckle on her thighs, on her chest, and fail to imagine that same pale expanse of skin when he sees her hunched over a patient file. He has his own little box into which he's painstakingly filed her away her since she first began working for him, and now she's breaking the rules.

"Always predictable, Dr Cameron."

She rolls her eyes, clearly assuming he's referring to what is now the white wine spritzer she holds, and she wishes more than anything she'd just gone for a damn beer. Hell, a shot of tequila, vodka and lime,  _anything_  but the stupid drink in her hand... And that  _is_  what he supposes he had been referring to, but the way her stormy eyes roll at him beneath those sooty lashes and the irritable pout of her mouth goad him, and suddenly he needs to make her very clear of her place. She was supposed to come wearing her scrubs.

She is  _supposed_  to be predictable.

"Unless you've tasted this stuff sans lemonade, House, I don't think you can comment. I'm quite attached to my stomach lining and would like to keep using it for a good few years still..."

"Anyone would think you were worried I was judging you..."

"And I wonder why I'd think that?"

"You're insecure? Pathetic? Desperate for acceptance? I could go on, but I left my thesaurus in my  _other_  pants."

"Uhuh, have a good night, House."

She turns from him, inwardly forbidding herself to rise to the bait, but she knows her own face well- having been acquainted with it for over twenty odd years- and knows her slightly exaggerated features are her own worst enemy when it comes to hiding hurt feelings. Putting on an air of indifference, she merely shrugs and makes to walk off into the living room in the hopes of finding Chase or Foreman.

_Jerk didn't even admit he was wrong about my fucking costume- probably didn't even notice._

Of course he noticed- she knows he notices  _everything_ \- but she hates the fact that she'd been secretly hoping he'd say something. She'd hardly expected it to be complimentary, or even _nice_ , but him saying nothing at all suddenly makes her feel cheap and exposed. She berates herself angrily upon realizing she's gone to all this effort for him alone, and part of her is inclined to agree that she may  _well_  be pathetic.

House watches her dark waves cascade over her shoulder as she turns from him, and the warm hum of victory sits in his chest. But, as he had been pondering previously, she is  _Cameron,_  and he can't seem to be around her without pulling her pigtails and rubbing salt in the wounds inflicted by his own hand.

Or tongue, he supposes would be the more accurate term.

"I  _love_  your costume, Dr Cameron."

She turns back towards him, and he can see- actually  _see-_  the emotions rolling across her face like thunder. First comes a pitifully innocent wave of happiness- not of the vain variety, but the similar sort he imagines a kicked puppy would show if suddenly petted- before she frowns, her green eyes wary; waiting for the punchline.

"As I said earlier; you make a truly  _lovely_  little doctor, and the coming half naked part?  _Inspired_!"

" _Actually,_  I'm supposed to be a nurse..."

"My apologies, I was merely trying to be polite and skim over your pitiful attempt at proving you have a backbone. Cheap lingerie  _is_  still cheap lingerie, the fact you opted for a dress- if you want to call it that- with that adorable little cross- which may as well be a target for god's sake- only proves my previous point. You _still_  can't lose control; still the same old sensible little doctor, never mind that you look like you could be bought for about twenty dollars. Tell me, Dr Cameron, how  _hard_  is it right now trying to hide the fact that you feel cheap, uncomfortable, and are _desperately_  trying to stop yourself from zipping that hot little piece up and just throwing your coat back on? Not that I'm not  _enjoying_  the display, you understand, it's just I prefer my party girls a little more  _convincing._ "

"You're an ass, House."

Her voice is quiet, and, despite the fact he is mildly disappointed with what had come out of his mouth- sure the arguments were somewhat lame, and a little muddled, what with the whisky greedily swallowed on his way over- her face is pale and her eyes glint with too much moisture.

And he  _could_  leave it there- could simply wait a beat and she'd disappear off to sulk somewhere else- but he has a reputation to uphold. Or something like that. Her soft, hurt sentiment only fuels the fire as he knows full well that had anyone _else_  called her some of those things, they'd most likely be on the receiving end of a well-deserved slap. But not him.

"Don't tell me this was for  _my_  benefit?"

She carries on glaring at him; arms crossed tightly over her chest, but he spots the tick at her jaw and the way she's trying not to blink so that none of her feelings spill out onto her cheeks.

And he can't resist.

He dips a hand into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled twenty dollar bill.

"So how about it, little girl? What will twenty dollars get me?"


	5. Chapter 5

House stands alone in a relatively quiet corner of the living room, idly studying the numerous trophies adorning the shelves. The shelves themselves are dusty, and when he picks up one of of the silver cups won for soccer, the dust sits almost untouched beneath. The fact that Chase has brought them out purely for show tonight  _should_  fill him with unbridled joy. He  _should_  be finding the young Ozzy right now and calling him out on it... As it is, he hasn't spoken to anyone since his rather tumultuous conversation with Cameron, and he think this may be for the best.

She didn't outright burst into tears when he gave her the twenty- opting to attempt to shove it down the front of her dress when met only with anguished silence at the gesture- but her absence since she stormed off is surely telling.

He decides he needs some air- the musky atmosphere of dance and drink heavy in the living room- and journeys towards the kitchen, stopping off to grab a fresh beer on the way. In the corner behind the drinks table he can see a young nurse pinned to the wall- much to her delight if her blissful expression and roaming hands are to be believed- blocked partially from his view by a large swatch of green lycra.

_Well, at least_ someone's _having a good time._

The kitchen is less packed, but only slightly. The air in here is cool however, almost cold, and a quick scan of the room shows why.

"You need to find Foreman!  _Wait_!"

House looks over to where his best friend is hung halfway out the window, yelling drunkenly down into the street below.

"Cameron, you can't walk home like that! Your damn coat's still up here!"

Wilson takes a sip of the whisky in his hand, before hurling the tumbler out the window; presumably to get the found doctor's attention, rather than hit her.

" _Cameron_! Don't be a-an idiot!...ALLISON!"

House creeps curiously closer, joining his friend in the large, open window to see his youngest fellow's back as she stalks away down the street; extending a hand to perform an action that he can't quite  _believe_  is giving Wilson the finger, but that's  _definitely_  what it looks like.

Wilson turns to face him; eyes slightly bloodshot, but relatively coherent.

"What the hell did you do  _now_?"

"What makes you think _I_  did anything?"

"Oh  _please_ , I saw Cameron earlier with Foreman having a great time, then  _you_  arrive and about a half an hour later she's storming off into night in her fu-fucking underwear."

"Can't it just be a coincidence?"

He raises his hands irritably in mock surrender, but his eyes remain fixed on Cameron's retreating form. With her white dress and pale skin she's like a beacon in the darkened street, and he can't help but have a very bad feeling about letting her walk home in her current state.

A large part of him wants to do just that; fuck her, if she's going to get all touchy about a stupid bit of fun at her expense. But another part of him- the deeply cynical voice inside him- suggests that that may be  _exactly_  what anyone she comes across as she staggers back to her apartment in those ridiculous heels might decide to do.

"Where are you going?"

He ignores Wilson; not keen on receiving either a lecture or any well-meaning, yet useless advice. Limping through the living room, he sees that Foreman is still in much the same position, although the nurse now has one, long leg wrapped around him. He doesn't really want to explain to the young doctor  _why_  his colleague has gone off in a huff anyway, and so simply battles past the final few loiterers at the door and slips out into the naffly carpeted hallway.

Fortunately, Chase's apartment building has an elevator, and the doors open almost immediately. Once he reaches the ground floor and proceeds to lurch out into the street, however, he can't help but think that this whole exercise might be slightly foolish. His intended pursuit may not be wearing the world's  _best_  runaway shoes, but she had seemed relatively steady on them back in the apartment, and- with two working legs- she's a hell of a lot faster than him.

His doubts are quelled when he realizes he can still make out the young brunette's figure up ahead of him, and he limps on once more in earnest. She is walking slowly, with her head bent and her arms wrapped around herself, and he's not surprised given the fact he can see his own breath misting before him as he pants to catch her up. He is familiar with her address, and knows the most logical route for her to take home is through a web of fairly deserted suburban streets. This could either be a good thing, or a very bad one, and he doesn't wish to find out. She may irk him something rotten, but he has a feeling she'd annoy him a hell of a lot  _more_  if found bloodied on the side of the road somewhere.

She doesn't turn around- even when he is in what he is  _sure_  is hearing distance of her- and he has to struggle to leash in his anger as it creeps up from within once more at her stupidity.

"Cameron!"

He sees her jump a little as his voice echoes loudly over the silence, but she carries on walking without looking at back him.

" _Stop_! Don't you fucking walk away from me! What the hell are you thinking?!"

"Leave me alone, House!"

Her voice is hoarse, and breaks as she yells back at him without turning around.

_Well, that answers that question._

"I thought you had better manners then to run a cripple into the ground, Dr Cameron..."

His own voice is coming out in exerted pants and his leg is screaming at him to stop the merciless torture being bestowed upon it.

"Cameron! Wait!... _Please?_ "

Finally, she whirls around angrily; staggering slightly in her heels as she yells at him. She's a mess of wind-strewn curls, smudged makeup and chattering teeth. Her skin has taken on an eery, almost blue quality, and he realizes he should have grabbed her damn coat on his way out.

" _Why!?_  I don't want to talk to you! Get the hell away from me!"

"So  _don't_  talk to me! I'm not  _asking_  you to talk to me! But I am _not_  having you walking back to your place alone at this time of night!"

"Why? Because I look like... l-like a hoo- hooker?!"

" _Of course because you look like a fucking hooker_!"

Her voice hitches as she yells at him and he's aware that agreeing with her is probably not the  _best_  way to get her to cooperate in this instance, but what she's saying rings perfectly true. Her eyes widen at his admission and she spins round again and storms off at an increased speed.

_For fuck's sake, this is turning into some sort of roadside domestic!_

"CAMERON!"

She's pissing him off royally, and once again he's struck with the notion that if she's really going to be this damn idiotic, she can suffer the consequences; a sentiment his leg is in strong agreement with. Just as he's coming to this conclusion, a car speeds by them, horn honking loudly as loud cat-calls jeer out indecipherably over the roar of the engine. Cameron shrinks away visibly from the car as it passes; sidestepping nervously to the far-edge of the pavement, and he starts after her once more.

"You see that!?  _That's_  why I'm not having you walk off alone! You're practically wearing a neon sign that says 'fuck me'! And unlike  _me_ , not everyone is going to offer you payment first!"

" _Fuck you, House_!"

She attempts to turn to scream it at him- tipsy and miserable- but finally her heels get the better of her and she stumbles over onto the pavement clumsily. House slows his chase as he finally receives the opportunity to catch her up and approaches her almost casually. She pushes herself up, but only so far so that she's sitting before him like a broken doll. She's fallen onto her hands and knees, and both are scraped and bleeding, but there doesn't appear to be any serious damage.

She sits with her knees bent loosely before her, and he can see the purple flash of her underwear.

"Cameron..."

"Fuck you."

It comes out much quieter this time; almost tired. She's vaguely aware that she's crying, and absently-mindedly wipes at her cheeks; leaving a thin smear of scarlet from her injured hand down the side of her nose. House stands patiently at her side, looking down curiously at her as she avoids his gaze.

"Come on, let's get you home."

His tone is kinder than it has been all night, and he extends his hand to her to pull her back to her feet; inwardly thanking any interested deity that she didn't break her fucking ankle instead of just sustaining a few shallow scrapes. She silently lets him help her up and hides her surprise as he proceeds to dust her off as best as possible- not really minding the way his hand brushes briskly over her butt and sides- the gesture a remarkably innocent one.

They walk on in silence down the deserted street, and he watches her expression out of the corner of his eye to make sure she isn't actually in pain, but her face remains deadpan. Regardless, he realizes that, where earlier in the night he had concluded his need to torture and tease the pretty young doctor at his side, there exists also a side to their peculiar relationship that allows them now to walk in a silence that gradually becomes less hateful, until it is as close to 'companionable' as he suspects either of them get.

"Never a dull moment with you, Dr Cameron."

He says it quietly, and she surprises him with a rueful chuckle at the tainted irony. She walks mercifully slowly, and doesn't comment on his pronounced limp as his leg shoots fire up the entire side of his body. He muses that she probably hasn't forgiven him quite enough that she doesn't believe he deserves at least a _little_  of the pain.

He's inclined to agree.

When they reach the halfway point to her apartment, House is struck with his earlier thought and turns to give her a proper once-over. Her jaw clenches as he does so, and again, he can fully understand how she'd be slightly apprehensive of his attention.

"You're shivering."

She shrugs as if disinterested, and he concludes that she has  _indeed_  got a little way to go before actually forgiving him. He fights the urge to roll his eyes, but instead shucks off his leather jacket and holds it out to her, only to be wordlessly ignored as she continues to walk steadily on. The bite of the cold that wracks instantly through his t-shirt is brittle and harsh, and he's both disapproving and slightly impressed by her stubbornness and refusal at the offer of another layer.

Disapproval wins out when a harsh gust of wind raises the hairs on his arms, and, despite it only being a short way left to her place, he doesn't want her passing out on the way there. He doesn't think she'll put up a fight, but readies himself just in case; gently draping the coat over her shoulders as they walk. She tenses immediately at his touch, but she resists the urge to childishly throw it off; never really having been one for tantrums, and feeling she has already argued enough for one night.

A minute passes, and she silently moves her arms into the sleeves; wincing a little as the rough fabric rubs her raw palms, but feeling instantly warmer in the heavy motorcycle leather. House feels his mouth twitch slightly with a repressed grin, and battles hard to keep his pokerface. Personally, he feels she would make quite a cute biker chick as well as a nurse.

He sensibly keeps this thought to himself.


	6. Chapter 6

It is only when they reach her apartment building that it suddenly dawns on Cameron that she's left her keys in the pocket of her coat still hanging in Chase's closet, and she swears extensively under her breath. Coming to the same realisation; House fights back the innate urge to smirk at her. Pulling a credit card from the wallet in his jeans pocket, he jostles the plastic expertly within the thin gap between door and wall at the front entrance, until a telling click grants them access.

"I'm going to hazard a guess you didn't learn that little trick with the boy scouts?"

He looks back at her; taking her sarcastic tone to be a good sign, but decides it may still be too soon to enquire if she herself had been a girl scout; the image of Cameron in pigtails and a little neckerchief only too plausible.

"I'm hoping you have a spare key for your apartment, Dr Cameron, as the inner doors are all dead-locked, so that fancy little trick is off the table from here on out."

"I do, and can I voice my concern that you have _clearly_  given breaking into my apartment some thought?"

"Who said it's only been a  _thought_?"

She rolls her eyes at him, and he doesn't miss the fact that her gaze is still a little brittle, despite her participation in their familiar back and forth routine. That said, he also doesn't miss the fact that she hasn't yet given him any form of dismissal, so he follows her curiously into the elevator; smiling inwardly at the feel of his own leather jacket brushing softly against his arm as he stands beside her.

Neither of them look at each other as the elevator ascends slowly, and House can't help but wonder what he's doing following her to her front door. His leg provides him with an easy answer; the traitorous limb voicing a stern refusal on walking back to his own apartment in the freezing cold. It is a refusal he hopes Cameron won't make him admit out loud.

She turns her back to him as she goes about locating her spare key from amidst a collection of potted plants, and he has to resist the urge to peek over her shoulder; both out of curiosity, and simply to irk her. With her mission accomplished, she opens the door with a flick of her wrist and walks blindly into the darkness of her apartment. House hesitates for a second, but the door remains open in invitation, and, after some rustling from inside her flat, the hallway illuminates with a spilled yellow glow as she finds the light switch. He moves to stand at the threshold and sees her reaching up into the cupboard above her sink to grab a mug. Two mugs.

"Coffee?"

Her back is still towards him, and that singular word is cold; almost indifferent. House simply nods, before realizing she's oblivious to his actions and verbalising in the affirmative. He takes a seat on her sofa; feeling suddenly awkward. Cameron tends to alternate between feverish, nervous energy, and her own- strangely endearing- attempt at smugness when around him, and this sudden brittle indifference is unchartered territory.

When she finally brings him the steaming mug of coffee, he realizes he's seeing her face for the first time since leaving Chase's in the light, and her expression is strained and unhappy, although she's doing her best to keep it neutral. She hovers above him; seemingly undecided on whether to sit, stand or run away. The coffee is strong, though, and laced with just the right amount of sugar- just the way she knows he likes it- and he drinks deeply; savoring its sweet warmth.

"Unclench, Cameron."

She gives him a measured look, but, after a moment's pause, moves to sit rigidly on the sofa beside him; the large expanse of no-man's land she leaves between them not going unnoticed. The small hiss that comes from her smudged lips brings his attention back to the bloody scrapes at her knees, which, in the bright tungsten light of her apartment appear ugly with dirt and grit. House frowns and places his mug on the coffee table, getting up without a word and limping over to her bathroom.

He returns with a small first aid kit found- predictably- inside the medicine cabinet over the sink, and takes a seat on the coffee table opposite her. Cameron feels her heart beat mutinously faster as a strong, calloused hand cups the back of her calf and brings one leg up so that her heeled foot dangles over House's leg, giving him better access to the broken flesh of her knee. Wordlessly, he skims his hand up her thigh- pretending he doesn't notice the muscles twitching beneath his palm- and unclips her stocking; rolling the thin, ruined nylon gently down her leg till it collects loosely around her lower calf.

The silence is tangible as he selects a pair of needle-headed tweezers and goes expertly about extracting the sharp little shards of grit that have embedded themselves painfully into her flesh. He smiles slightly as the muscles surrounding the affected area quiver sporadically at the intrusion; the funny little tick this results in oddly mesmerizing. He tears open an antiseptic wipe with his teeth and rubs the area with reluctant roughness, all too aware of the tiny noise that escapes her throat before she can help herself.

Crystal blues study her face as she grits her teeth, and remain intently focused on her as he presses a small gauze patch to her knee and simply holds it in place for a moment with a warm hand. She returns his gaze for just a second- eyes bright like glitter- before dropping it down to her knee to watch him gently fasten the white square in place with medi-tape.

He releases her leg and motions for her to replace it with the other, repeating his actions with her bloodied stocking; eyebrows furrowing slightly as he examines her left knee in the brightness of her overheads. He had thought the fall was a simple scrape onto the pavement, but a small gash at the top of her shin bone is open red and deep. It doesn't demand the need for stitches, but forgoing them will leave a sure scar. He rubs at the cut thoughtfully with a fresh wipe, before spying a pack of steri-strips in amongst the plasters and helps himself to two of the small, white makeshift sutures. He gently works the broken skin together with his fingers; applying as little pressure as possible as he fixes it in place with the bright white strips, patching up the injury with another square of gauze.

"Thank you..."

It's just a murmur, and he almost decides he's hearing things, but he knows better than that. Blue eyes flickering up to find shimmering green he offers a small nod.

"Let me see your hands."

He realizes he's never noticed just how small her hands are, but then, it may just be that they look that way when held, palms up, in his own. They remind him of delicate white birds- white robins he supposes- with the matching swatch of raw flesh reddening the base of both palms. He tears open the last of the antiseptic wipes and rubs the damaged flesh gently; the battered skin showing only superficial scrapes. She watches his hand as he repeats the same soft strokes to her palms over and over, and in turn, he studies her; smeared makeup and tired eyes. She still wears his jacket, and it engulfs her; showing just a sliver of white from the hem of her dress. Her hair is mussed and unruly, and the red lipstick that had angered him so back at the party is now just a ghostly tinge on soft lips.

_Like a kid that got into mommy's make-up bag..._

"You stupid girl."

His tone is low and bitter, and when she looks up at him with surprised hurt in her eyes he growls at her, but keeps her hand held in his.

"You could have gotten yourself seriously hurt walking off alone like that... You should know better."

She makes a small noise of indignation, but can't help feeling slightly sheepish. Personally, she thinks he's being a little over-dramatic, but the fact remains that without House, she would still be standing outside her apartment in nothing but a wisp of a dress in the early hours of the morning. House, however, feels he's being just the  _right_  amount of dramatic, and glares at her; angry that she doesn't seem to grasp the seriousness of what could have happened. He wants to pretend he doesn't care; that what she did was simply stupid and childish, and if she can't see that, then she's a fool. He knows she isn't those things though, and he knows he pushed all the right buttons to get her to do what she did. She's an idiot for putting herself in danger, but he can't help but think part of the reason he feels so angry is guilt driven.

_If I hadn't heard Wilson yelling down at her she would have walked off alone... If something had happened to her..._

He tries to shake this train of thought, but he knows full well that if anything _had_  happened to her- he could tell everyone else otherwise- but a part of him would have felt responsible. He didn't have to physically push her out into the street to be playing with fire.

And she had been burnt.

Frowning, he moves to stand before her and watches as her eyes cast down under his scrutiny.

"Stand up."

She does as she's told; standing just a foot away from him and waiting in that ever patient way he has become so accustomed to. The way that suggests she trusts him to do whatever he needs to do and she will simply go with it. She will always just go with it. House places his hands on her shoulders; a hand on either lapel of his jacket, and gently opens it up to reveal her costume beneath, scolding himself as his own breath mimics hers as it hitches audibly at the gesture. Her eyes find his and she regards him quizzically as he continues to push at the jacket until it falls heavily to the floor at her feet. House keeps his eyes locked on hers as he takes a step back from her, before allowing them to stray down her body silently.

Cameron watches him curiously, resisting the urge to pull at the hem of her dress which feels obscenely high-  _is_  obscenely high, she corrects herself- and self consciously hiding her scraped palms behind her back. There is nothing she can do about the slightly mismatched gauze squares at her knees or the comically bunched white nylon at her ankles, but House's mouth forms a small smile as his eyes reach these flaws and she remains perfectly still.

"It really _is_  a good costume on you... visually anyway."

He takes her silence as a cue to go on and he nods as if she's made a particularly good argument.

"Of course  _anything_  looks good on you... it's pretty...but it doesn't  _suit_  you."

"So you've said."

"And I stand by it; what's interesting though, is that I do believe you agree?"

"I didn't want to wear it... I knew that as soon as I got back home... but, I just... everyone thinks I'm so... boring."

"They don't think you're boring; they like you."

"But _you_  do."

"...I don't think you're boring... Insufferably nice? Sure. Painfully sweet? Humble?  _Pathetically_  naive? You're all those things, but I don't think you're boring... I shouldn't have said what I said back there... I was angry... I was angry because of all those things I just said you were... those things that you  _are_. All those qualities drive me crazy sometimes; it's like you walk in some proverbial ray of sunshine while the rest of us shelter from the rain, and it irks me. It irks me like I'm a kid who finds himself constantly in the same room as a beautiful porcelain vase, and I want to touch it and study it and play with it but I know that if I do, there's a good chance I'll break it. I don't want to crush you, Cameron. I don't want to spoil you, but like a little boy, I see something pristine and I can't help myself from dirtying it, simply out of spite... When I was a kid I used to break things just to see if I could put them back together again... I don't want to break you only to realize you're something I can't fix... But you make it hard to resist trying sometimes."

Cameron simply continues to watch him silently. She is crucially aware of the magnitude to House's confession; aware that she is being let in further than has ever been allowed before, and more than she probably will ever be allowed again. Her heart drums rapidly in her chest with a force that makes her feel a little faint, and his words- mixed with the copious amount of wine drunk throughout the evening- make her feel as though she is on fire.

The part of her that is innately 'Cameron' wants to close the distance between them and envelop him. She wants to feel the muscular planes of his body press against hers and breathe in his scent and look up into blue eyes and say simply and quietly 'I love you'. But she knows by now that love hurts. Just as she knows the words would be wasted... he knows her heart and who it belongs to, and, although he uses his words often to spite her, he has never used that particular knowledge against her as cruelly as she knows he is capable of. He  _hasn't_  crushed her.

Instead of doing any of those things, she offers him a small, cautious smile.

"You could have just told me I looked nice..."

House stares at her incredulously, but the lilt of her lips is kind, and her eyes show the understanding her words fail to communicate. After a long while, he nods at her; knowing he has left them both with nothing more to say on the matter. Nothing more that  _needs_  to be said. His eyes remain fixed on hers, his tone absurdly serious.

"You always look nice."

With that he turns to leave.

His leg has warmed up considerably, and, while still painful, the vicious bite to the familiar agony has eased down. He refuses to entertain the idea that part of the wretched ache had anything to do with the night's events; negating to believe the fact that the waters between himself and young brunette being once more relatively calm and his leg feeling suddenly better ago be anything but coincidence.

"House..."

There is something in her voice as she utters that one word that he has never heard before, and he turns back towards her curiously. She moves slowly towards him, her face unreadable until she stands with her nose almost pressed against his. Without word, she closes that gap too; cold tips touching, before warm lips find his.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if he should push her away; not to hurt her, but to  _avoid_  doing so. As her kiss intensifies, he banishes the thought. Her lips are firm on his, almost authoritative, and through them he can feel everything; her anger and hurt at the way he insists on treating her, her understanding of the fact that it isn't out of unkindness but necessity, and her love for him regardless.

He realizes, as her tongue slips sweetly to find his own, that it isn't any sort of love he has come across before. It isn't the hopeless soppy kind; she doesn't swoon over him and lie awake picturing some ghastly wedding day and wake up hoping for roses. It's much fresher than that. Much simpler. Primal yet innocent.

And, when she begins to slowly back them towards the only room left unexplored, he lets her guide him wordlessly. There is nothing he can tell her- warn her- that she doesn't already know.


End file.
